


Fear Comes to Jump City

by lizardhair



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham rogues - Fandom, Teen Titans (Animated Series)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Canon-Typical Ableism, Depersonalization, Fear, Halloween, I mean we're dealing with Scarecrow here, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Manipulation, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Other, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Post-Canon, Psychological Horror, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU), Stockholm Syndrome, Suicide mentions, a lot of these tags are for safety's sake but hey I want y'all to be safe, is this edgy? maybe so, villains win
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-06-23 22:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15616500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizardhair/pseuds/lizardhair
Summary: Consciousness returned slowly, like the drip of blood from a shallow wound.The man shifted on the frigid cement and heard something rattle near his feet. It was then that he became aware of the pressure around his leg. Already knowing what he would see, the man opened his eye and looked down.---When Scarecrow leaves Gotham to take a "vacation" in Jump, everyone pays the price....Save for the Master of Fear himself, that is.





	1. Autumn Harvest

Consciousness returned slowly, like the drip of blood from a shallow wound. 

The man shifted on the frigid cement and heard something rattle near his feet. It was then that he became aware of the pressure around his leg. Already knowing what he would see, the man opened his eye and looked down.

A dull iron manacle encircled his right ankle, far too tight to possibly slip out of. Connected to it was a length of coiled chain that appeared to have been secured to the metal support pillar in the back of the dim room. 

The man sat up, chain clinking as he did. A burst of pain through his head made him grit his teeth, but it passed quickly enough. Whatever drug had been used to knock him out must have been potent, or a large dose, or both. For a moment he felt panic rise in his throat, but he pushed it back down. Such an emotion was unnecessary. 

Presently, he inspected the room from his position on the ground. Two filthy lightbulbs hung from the high ceiling, their glow too weak to even illuminate the corners of the room. Behind him, the man found a ragged mattress sitting on the dirty floor. Still, a mattress was better than cement (so long as it was not filled with shards of glass), and the man relocated himself onto its stained surface, pulling the chain along with him. Why he hadn’t simply been placed on the mattress while unconscious was beyond him. To the left wall was a long metal table bolted to the floor, along with a chair done in the same fashion. More important, however, was the staircase to the front of the room. Its door was in shadow, but he could see the faint gleam of a doorknob. 

The man shook his head. The chain looked to be just long enough to give him access to the three bottommost stairs, and not an inch more. Perhaps if the staircase itself hadn’t been quite as far away…

What did it matter? He couldn’t escape. He had realized as soon as he’d woken up that his utility belt had been taken, along with most of his armor, his gloves, his boots, and his mask. At least his captor was kind enough to leave him the eyepatch, trousers, and thin undershirt. 

He sighed and laid down on the mattress. It was best to start preparing himself for the... _ unpleasantness _ that was soon to come.

_ The first victims were two couples out on a double date. Security camera footage from the building they were found by shows that at 11:33 p.m., the couple passed by the building and took a shortcut through the adjacent alleyway. According to residents in the couples’ apartment building, the alleyway was a popular pathway to get to and from the apartments. _

_ The two couples were found at 2:09 a.m. when a passing factory worker heard their muffled screams. She called 911 and waited on the scene for the police and paramedics to arrive. She considered removing the gags from the couples’ mouths, but was worried she would injure them or be bitten, as the couples did not seem to be in their right minds. _

_ The couples were taken to the Jump City General Hospital and admitted to the psych ward. When the gags were removed, the doctors found them to be covered in blood and a strange, sickly yellow liquid. Upon taking blood samples from all of the victims, doctors found high quantities of a chemical with an identical synthetic structure to the liquid on the gags.  _

_ Now that their mouths were free, the victims could be heard clearly. What the factory worker had taken as wordless cries, the hospital staff discovered to be screams of fear. One man appeared to be under the impression that he was being chased by a rabid dog. The other man was pleading for his parents--or  _ to _ his parents--to let him out. The first woman thrashed and howled and said only the word “spiders.” The second woman constantly gasped for air and kicked her legs, as though she was drowning. By morning, all four of the victims had screamed themselves hoarse.  _

_ The next night, three more victims were found on the opposite side of Jump City. One was a night watchman, the other two were factory workers. All three of them cried about crows. _

_ The night after that, two more victims were found outside a 24-hour convenience store. One had evidently gone out for a cigarette break, and the other had been attacked when she went outside to look for her coworker. The man was yelling about teeth, the woman about being buried alive. _

_ It was now the first of October, and all of the victims were still hospitalized. The police were out in full force, and the Titans were on high alert. A message had been sent to Gotham City, along with a request for a delivery of anti-toxin. _

Suddenly, a speaker crackled to life above the man’s head, and a voice like autumn leaves filled the room.

“I see that you are awake. Good.”

The man swallowed roughly. “Hello, Scarecrow.” He paused, considering. “Or would you prefer that I call you Dr. Crane?”

A quiet, tenebrous laugh whispered from the speakers. “My, my, what a polite guest I seem to have acquired. Most people don’t bother to ask me that.”

The man smiled tiredly into the mattress. “Do I appear to be like most people?”

Another raspy laugh. “No, you are quite the... _ unique _ specimen. Much different than the others I have experimented on.”

Specimen. Experimented. The man felt sick to think of what those words meant for him. 

“And to answer your question, you may call me Scarecrow. I doubt that you will be able to consider me anything else after long.”

“Very well, Scarecrow,” said the man. “May I ask why I have been brought here?”

“Why, certainly,” said Scarecrow. “You are here because you are the perfect subject with which to perfect my fear toxin. Care to guess why?”

“...My healing factor,” said the man.  _ I knew that would get me in trouble someday. _

“Correct. Your peculiar genetic structure will allow me to create a more... _ powerful _ toxin. However, for me to do so, you will have to undergo…” Here Scarecrow paused, and the man could picture him smiling thinly as he steepled his fingers. “...No small amount of testing.”

“Ah. I see,” the man said. He knew Scarecrow was watching him, studying his face for any reaction, any sign of fear. He tried not to give him one; he was not sure he succeeded.

“You understand what this means, and yet you do not attempt to bargain with me, to persuade me to release you.  _ Have you succumbed to your fate so soon?” _

The man could not contain his shiver at the last sentence. There was far more of Scarecrow’s voice in those words than of Crane’s.

“I’m not so foolish as to believe there is any changing your mind on this matter,” said the man. He gave the chain a rattle. “Besides, it’s quite evident there’s no escaping for me.” He sighed. “Resistance is clearly pointless. And I must admit…” 

“Yes?” Scarecrow murmured, sounding pleased with the prospect of a compliant subject.

“I am interested to see where my mind will take me under the effects of your toxin. Who among us could resist the desire to study our own psyche?”  _ Even at the possible cost of our sanity. _

“Oh, you  _ understand.” _ Scarecrow purred. “How unlike the multitude of idiots in Gotham you are.” The man heard rustling, likely the sound of papers being shuffled through, and then the scratch of a pen. “Hm...so I ought to denote you as a willing participant, then, correct?”

There was no denying the amusement in Scarecrow’s voice. The man nodded his assent; the pen rasped upon the paper.  _ At least he has a sense of humor, _ thought the man.

_ “Excellent,” _ said Scarecrow. There was a faint hiss to his words now, like that of a snake. “Then,  _ shall we begin?” _

“Yes,” the man said. He made no attempt to cover his mouth or nose as a yellow-tinged gas began to fill the room, curling out of a dark corner and spreading rapidly. His breathing was as even as he could make it, despite the sting (and strangely familiar scent) of the fear toxin each time he inhaled.

_ “How do you feel?” _

The man shuddered; it sounded as though Scarecrow was right behind him. “My heart rate h-has increased, chest f-feels tight.” It was difficult to speak, but he had to laugh. “I haven’t had a panic attack i-in decades. H-how amazing that I’d forgotten how bad--how bad they are.”

The  _ scritch _ of pen on paper.  _ “Fascinating,” _ murmured Scarecrow. “The dose you have just received was of the same potency that sent all of my other subjects into hysterics.”

A muffled “mm” was all the man could manage in response. His fingernails dug into the fabric of his pant leg. 

Scarecrow chuckled.  _ “Oh, don’t hide your face like that; let me see the agonized expression you’re wearing.” _

The man barely heard Scarecrow over the sound of his own rapid heartbeat, but he did his best to comply. He lifted his head from the mattress and dimly noted Scarecrow’s hum of approval. 

“Now then. What, pray tell, does the toxin smell like to you?”

The man’s first instinct was to lie.  _ But why bother, _ thought the man as he let his head drop back down.  _ It would only make things worse. _ He coughed and spoke.

“Cigarette smoke.”

_ “And why is that, hm?” _

The man shook his spinning head, jaw clenched.  _ No… _

A sigh like a fall breeze swirled through the poisoned air. “But you have been doing  _ so well. _ Don’t stop now; take a deep breath and tell your doctor what ails you.”

Such a kind order was too much to resist. The man closed his eye and obeyed, instantly feeling his heart seize in a paroxysm of terror. The reek of cigarettes was repulsive, bringing long-subdued and rotted memories boiling to the surface. _“T-tell_ you, doctor? I-I could _sh-show_ you,” the man stuttered out between chattering teeth. “If y-you desire it.”

_ “Oh?” _

With shaking hands, the man pushed his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, then held both arms out to where he estimated a camera to be. He heard Scarecrow lean forwards in his seat, and the man flinched when he spoke.

_ “Who did that to you?” _

A long moment of silence. Then:

“M-my father,” the man said in a whisper. His eye was unfocused. “He...he…”

_ “Shh. _ That is enough for tonight,” Scarecrow interrupted. “We do not want to push you too far. Not yet.” 

Scarecrow’s words were oddly soothing to the man; he nodded and pressed himself into the mattress. Though his chest was still tight, he could at least breathe without inhaling more fear toxin.

“Rest now,” Scarecrow murmured. “Let sleep take you.”

His eyelid felt heavy. As the dim lights guttered out, plunging the room into pitch-dark and allowing him to slip into unconsciousness, the man heard Scarecrow whisper,

_ “And may you have pleasant nightmares.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can hear crows just outside my window...
> 
> @lizard-hair on tumblr, come yell at me about dc and fics


	2. Apple Cider

When the man awoke, he found that the room was still in total darkness. It was likely, then, that this area was underground--and therefore windowless.

_ All your screams belong to me, and me alone. _

He bit his lip to keep silent. It seemed that the toxin had not fully worn off, as the man had just heard Scarecrow’s voice in the back of his own mind.  _ This does not bode well for my current--and future--mental health, _ thought the man. He shifted beneath his blanket and--

_ Wait, blanket? _ The man sat up in confusion but, dizzy, he fell back down onto his mattress. He closed his eye in an attempt to stop the sickening sensation that the entire room was spinning on some demented axis.

By the time he had recovered, the room’s weak lights had flickered on for the day. At least the man was now able to see that he was indeed tucked under a blanket--one that very much had not been there last night. Which meant, of course, that as the man had been sleeping, Scarecrow had crept into the room and given him a blanket. And while a blanket would keep him warm in the rather chilly environment, the man did not much care for the idea that Scarecrow had been near him while he was unconscious.

A speaker crackled to life, and Scarecrow himself spoke.  _ “Enjoying your reward?” _

_ Reward for what, exactly?  _ The man wanted to answer, but found that his mouth was far too parched to get the words out. He chose to nod instead, hoping that Scarecrow would see.  _ I have the sneaking suspicion that being rude to my captor would not end well, _ the man thought. “I am,” he mouthed. “Thank you.”

_ “You’re welcome.” _ Scarecrow, said, then chuckled.  _ “How nice it is to have a rapport with my subject...or no, let us call you my patient. After all, you _ are _ here of your own free will, are you not?” _

The man rubbed his eye and sealed his fate. “Yes,” he mouthed. “A willing participant, just as you said last night.”

Scarecrow’s laugh swirled through the room, chilling the man to his core.  _ “Good. You remember.” _ A pause.  _ “Before we begin testing today, I suppose you ought to have something to drink. Allow me to fetch you a glass.” _

The speaker cut off, and the man was left in silence. He studied the room to see if anything else had been added (or removed). But it all looked the same. The man blinked. No, that wasn’t right: there  _ was _ a difference. To his right, there was a door that he hadn’t previously noticed. It was the same dark color as the walls, but now it was ajar. Most interesting was the fact that the chain attached to the man’s ankle would allow him not only to reach the door, but allow him access to whatever was behind it. Narrowing his eye, the man gazed into the shadows at the space between the door and its wall. He thought he saw something white, and he guessed that the area was a bathroom.  _ How convenient, _ thought the man.  _ All the amenities of home. _

It was then that the man heard a soft  _ creak, _ and a beam of dusky light briefly illuminated a corner of the room. Turning, the man saw that the door at the top of the stairwell had opened. As he watched, a tall, dark figure slipped through the crack and closed the door. Walking down the stairs, Scarecrow spoke.

_ “I’ve brought you some water, if you’d like it.” _

The man doubted that the liquid in that glass was water, but he nodded anyway. He was thirsty--and had spied the knife on Scarecrow’s belt.

Scarecrow stopped on the fourth step from the bottom.  _ “Any further, and I will be within your reach. But it would be _ terribly  _ unwise of you to attack me. I do not have the key to your shackles on my person, and without it, you would not be able to free yourself while I was unconscious.” _ A laugh.  _ “And it would be worse if you were to kill me. You would starve to death, right here. Such an _ agonizing  _ way to go, mm?” _

The man nodded again. That was about what he had been thinking.

Evidently satisfied, Scarecrow continued his approach. When he reached the mattress the man was sitting on, he crouched down and held out a glass filled with clear liquid.

_ “Here you are. It’s nice and cold, so drink it all.” _

The man bowed his head before accepting the glass, taking it from Scarecrow’s bony fingers with great caution. As Scarecrow had said, it was cold, but there were no ice cubes floating on the liquid’s surface. It was nothing but water.

He brought the glass to his lips, then paused and looked at Scarecrow. He was wearing a white labcoat, faded jeans, a flannel shirt, and an expression of cruel anticipation.  _ Ah, _ the man thought.  _ This is going to be bad. _

And with that, he drank. The “water” was refreshing, though there was a bitter aftertaste; it was not unlike that of old cough medicine. When the glass was empty, the man handed it back to Scarecrow.

“How much fear toxin was in that liquid?” The man asked. 

Scarecrow smiled, and the man wished he would stop.  _ “More than yesterday’s dosage.” _

“Ah.”

_ “Was there any particular flavor?” _

“No,” said the man. “It was bitter, nothing more.”

_ “Hm...no traumatic events tied to taste...how rare…” _

The man collapsed on the mattress, tremors racking his body. As though from a distance, he saw Scarecrow straighten up. A long, gaunt shadow arched over the panting man, but Scarecrow’s smile was all bleached-bone fangs.

Someone screamed. The man supposed it was him, or perhaps it was only in his head. Either way, it was deafening. He looked up at Scarecrow and tried to form words; a resounding failure. His heart was racing, terror burning through his arteries, setting him aflame.

_ “What do you fear?” _ Scarecrow murmured.  _ “Tell me what makes you scream, what makes you cry.” _ Quiet laughter.  _ “Though I think I have an idea…” _ Gentle as a lover, Scarecrow grasped the man’s hand with one of his own, using the other to roll up his sleeve.

_ “These marks…”  _ Scarecrow purred.  _ “They hurt, but that wasn’t what frightened you, was it?” _

The man shook his head. It was all he could do.

_“It did in the beginning, but the pain became...secondary. What you then feared was the man who did this to you, and what_ _else he_ could _do to you. Next...you feared the emotion it caused, did you not?”_

A nod. Everything hurt.

_ “Mm...you wanted to kill him, didn’t you? And that scared you, how much you hated him, how much one person could hate another.” _

It was not a question. The man nodded regardless.

_ “But you no longer fear hate, or killing, or pain. You do not even fear your father, the one who snuffed out his cigarettes on your arms. No, child, what you fear is…” _

_ “Burning,” _ whispered the man, eye wide but unseeing. “It burns. It all... _ burns.” _

_ “Yes,” _ said Scarecrow.  _ “It does indeed.” _

And the man was lost to his mind.

  
  


* * *

 

 

His visions were of maddening flames of color: yellow, orange, crimson, swallowed by white and and then repeating. The man saw faces in the fire, those of the few people he cared about. He could smell their burning flesh, hear them beg for mercy. But the man could not help them, no matter how much he screamed: the inferno had been caused by his actions, and it was far too late to extinguish it. Flames licked up the man’s body while on his pyre, but there was no pain. The man surely wanted it, for at least then he could suffer alongside his loved ones. Instead, he felt nothing, and that was all the more agonizing.

_ Everything you were has long since burned away, _ said the sibilant voice of Scarecrow. _ That is what scares you. Loss. _

_Yes,_ the man whimpered.

Then there was nothing but fear.


	3. Falling Leaves

For a moment, the man was not sure if he was awake or dreaming. Then he felt the rough fabric of the blanket against his skin, and reality welcomed him back. But, all things considered, he would have preferred it not to. 

The lights were still on; it was time to get up. Slowly, the man pushed himself to a sitting position, then to his feet. He paused to let his head stop spinning and began making his way to the partially-open door. Movement was made difficult by the manacle around his ankle, but by affecting a slight limp, the man found the chain to be not too much of an inconvenience.

When he pushed open the door, a rather spartan bathroom was revealed: sink, toilet, shower. A light bulb overhead had turned on as the door swung inwards, evidently motion-activated.  _ How modern, _ thought the man as he undressed. The shower was in working condition, but no matter how far the man turned the dial, it only produced cold water. _ At least I can drink without being drugged...I hope. _

Once he had finished in the bathroom, the man investigated the rest of his confines. As Scarecrow had said, the man found that his chain allowed him to go no higher than the third stair from the bottom. He moved on, examining the metal table and chair on the room’s left side. There were scratches on the dingy surface of the table, but the man had no way of knowing what had caused them. General use...or something more sinister? He supposed he didn’t  want to know. The man took a seat in the chair, tugging his chain along with him. The chair was bolted to the floor as securely as its matching table; there would be no rearranging of  _ this _ furniture.

The man returned to his mattress--the rest of the room was barren and dim, and there was nothing more to explore. A moment after the man had settled himself, a speaker hissed to life.

_ “I am glad to see you are awake...and mobile,” _ Scarecrow said.  _ “The last man who received a dose of toxin of that magnitude was in a coma for two weeks before....” _

“Before what?”

A laugh. _“Before he awoke, scared of his own shadow. He is in Arkham now. Doing quite well, as far as I am aware. Oh, but how he_ howled _when he saw_ _me.”_

“...how long was I unconscious?” The man asked.

_ “Only two days,” _ Scarecrow said.  _ “Your rate of recovery is astounding. I’m rather jealous.” _

_ Two days, _ thought the man.  _ Or so he says. Though I suppose that would explain why I am so hungry. _

_ “Now that your body has had time to heal from and purge the toxin, I need a sample of your blood,” _ Scarecrow continued.  _ “What are your feelings on needles?” _

The man answered honestly. “I have had enough of them stuck into me; any fear vanished long ago.”  _ It burned away. Just like everything else. _

Scarecrow sighed.  _ “Ah, such a shame. I do prefer when my subjects are neurotic in that regard.” _

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, then.”

_ “There is no need for an apology,” _ Scarecrow chuckled.  _ “You are a fascinating patient nonetheless.” _ The speaker clicked off.

The man did not have to wait long before the door at the top of the stairs swung open. Scarecrow descended, carrying a rectangular silver tray. When he set the platter down, the man saw a large syringe and a bowl full of something unidentifiable.

_ “Now then, hold out an arm,” _ Scarecrow said as he prepared a syringe.

The man complied, sleeve already rolled up to expose the crook of his elbow. He bit back a cry when Scarecrow ran a thumb over his veins, causing them to protrude further out of the skin.

_ “You do not enjoy having your forearms touched,” _ Scarecrow observed, eyes twinkling with amusement. Before the man could protest, Scarecrow pressed his fingers to a cluster of faded circular burns, a gleeful smile twisting his face.

Snarling, the man wrapped his free hand around Scarecrow’s throat in one fluid motion. He saw Scarecrow’s grin morph into surprise, then suffocation.

“Do  _ not,” _ whispered the man, venom dripping from every syllable,  _ “ever _ presume to do that again.” He pulled Scarecrow closer. “Do I make myself clear?”

A choking, guttural laugh.  _ “Do  _ I?”

The man swore and released his hold on Scarecrow’s neck when he felt fingernails dig into the old burns.  _ “Damn _ you.”

Scarecrow’s grip only tightened.  _ “These will never heal, will they? The one thing that you can never lose...how ironic.” _

“Enough of this,” hissed the man. He went to pry Scarecrow’s fingers from his arm, but Scarecrow intercepted him; a hand caught his wrist and held fast.

_ “Be still,”  _ Scarecrow said as the man struggled,  _ “And tell your doctor where it hurts.” _

The man stopped dead. Barely breathing, he could do nothing but stare as Scarecrow rubbed his rough thumb around the outline of a burn. Unlike his previous attack, Scarecrow’s touch was tender. 

“What…?” The man said, light-headed. “What are you…?” He did not understand; no one had ever done such a thing to him.  _ No, _ he realized,  _ I have never  _ allowed _ anyone to do such a thing. To touch me. _

_ “How pathetic,” _ said Scarecrow, as though he had heard the man’s thoughts.  _ “It is a simple action, yet it has completely immobilized you.” _ Though Scarecrow’s words were harsh, his tone was not. In fact, he seemed almost as mesmerized as the man was.  _ “You were afraid of this, were you not? To feel the touch of another human here…” _ On “here,” Scarecrow ghosted his fingers over the man’s damaged flesh, making him shiver. Scarecrow's smile returned. 

_ You are easier to control than you seem. _

The man did not know if it was Scarecrow who spoke, or only a voice in his head. It was disturbing either way.

_ “Yes, we will have to... _ study _ this reaction further,” _ said Scarecrow.  _ “As for now, however…” _

The man winced but held still when Scarecrow sunk the needle into his still-captive arm. With practiced ease he kept his breathing steady as the syringe slowly filled with crimson blood--the sight had always interested him, and he took every opportunity that presented itself to watch. 

Once the syringe was full, Scarecrow placed it back on the tray and handed the bowl of food(?) over to the man. Up close, he supposed it could have been oatmeal--though it did not smell like it. What it  _ did _ smell like was meat, and the man did not care for the implications of that.

_ “Are you not hungry?” _

“I am,” the man said, hurriedly extracting the spoon from the bowl of...oatmeal.  _ That is what I will think of it as, at least. _  With Scarecrow’s eyes on him, the man put a spoonful into his mouth and swallowed. It was hot, but had the flavor of wet cardboard. Unpleasant, yet by no means inedible.  _ Enough to keep me alive, I suppose, _ the man thought. He took another bite and Scarecrow nodded, then stood.

_ “There are no tests scheduled until tonight, seeing as--” _ Scarecrow held up the syringe _ “--I have much to do.” _ He headed for the stairs.  _ “Entertain yourself until then.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Film your murders like love scenes, and film your love scenes like murders.” --Alfred Hitchcock
> 
> Fights are close enough to murders, right?


	4. Corn Maze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that mentions suicide and self-harm. Please read with caution.

The man was not keen on being alone with his thoughts. Not anymore.  _ And yet, here I am, _ thought the man.  _ Though this wouldn’t be so unpleasant if I had something with which to occupy myself. _ He could only assume Scarecrow was silently observing him through the cameras, taking down notes on his behavior in between formulating a new and  _ improved _ fear toxin.

Stretching, the man stood and wrapped his blanket around his shoulders. Given the constant chill and lack of windows, it seemed probable that he was confined in a fully-underground basement.  _ At least I know I’m safe from any stray tornadoes, _ the man thought as he limped over to the bathroom. He was quite thirsty; the bowl of “oatmeal” had (thankfully) not included any sort of drink, but he recalled having seen a cup perched on the edge of the sink. It was a flimsy plastic thing, but the man found that the cup held water well enough.

After draining the cup, the man hesitated. It really  _ did _ appear quite easy to break...and a shard of plastic would make for a decent weapon in a pinch. But it was that idea that gave the man pause. Scarecrow had left the cup in his reach for a reason, and the man doubted it was so that he could be harmed by his captive.

“And  _ harmed _ is the operative word, there,” the man said quietly as realization hit him. He set the cup back down on the sink’s lip and exited the bathroom, skin crawling.  _ Scarecrow’s toxin drives his victims into a frenzy of terror. In such a state of mind, it would be logical for one to want to escape from their fears...by any means possible. _

_ Two deep, jagged slashes. A bloody fragment of plastic clutched in a cooling hand. Blank eyes and still chest. An insane Rorschach test in the form of a spreading sanguine pool. _

He sat cross-legged on the mattress, biting the inside of his cheek; he fought the sudden sick urge to cry.  _ What is worse: the knowledge that Scarecrow has given me a way to commit suicide, or that he and I are both aware that I cannot do so? Not with my rate of recovery. _

“Scarecrow,” the man said, ill-ease sour in his mouth. He looked at the only camera he could see, waiting for a response.

Nothing. He had been ignored.

_ I suppose that is for the best, _ thought the man with a tired sigh.  _ Given that I do not know what would I have said to him had he answered. How foolish of me. _

He wrapped the blanket tighter around himself; there was nothing else to do but go back to sleep. Even though he had been unconscious for (supposedly) two days, the man did not feel particularly well-rested.  _ Nightmares would be the likely explanation for that, _ he thought before drifting off.

 

 

* * *

 

The man found himself in a large open field, grey grass below and grey sky above. The grass was long, and as he walked, it made a sound like  _ huh-shh-shh. _ The man did not know why or to where he was walking, only that he must. 

So he did. The world passed by in a haze, field unending and unchanging. There was only the whispering grass, identical on all sides. The man wished for a match--with just one spark, how easy it would be to raze everything in sight.

In an instant, the landscape had changed. There was no grass now, only ashen soil, and the sky was filled with smoke. Smoke, but no fire.

He ran, then. He had to. 

In the distance, a form appeared out of the smog. It looked like the barren trunk of a dead tree, sticking out of the ground at a crooked angle.

It hurt to breathe. His chest ached, noxious fumes swirling in his lungs, in his very blood.

He drew closer and the tree was not a tree. Of course it wasn’t. It was a massive cigarette, snuffed out and ground down into the charred earth.

At the base of the cigarette’s shadow there sat a figure, its knees drawn up to its chest, head bowed. The man approached and stood before the small figure. He could not speak.

Slowly, the figure raised its dark-haired head. The man looked into the scorched remains of his own countenance, his features those of a child’s. He stared at himself, at his ravaged flesh, and screamed.

The last thing he saw was the figure lower its head back to its knees as its clothes ignited, a dark silhouette wreathed in ravenous orange flames.

 

  
  


* * *

 

The man awoke still screaming. He stopped only when Scarecrow struck him across the face, then lay on the mattress, breathing raggedly. His too-dilated eye was fixed on the other man, who sat beside his own curled body. Despite everything, Scarecrow’s presence was...reassuring, somehow. He had not abandoned him. He had not burned. 

_ “Do you want to tell me what happened?” _ Scarecrow asked. He was smiling, the man could see, but at that moment he did not care.

Though not sure if he was at all coherent, the man confessed to Scarecrow what he had witnessed in his maddening dream. When he had finished, Scarecrow placed a hand on the man’s shoulder.

_ “My thanks for your honest answer. Now, may  _ I  _ admit something to  _ you?”

“Yes,” said the man, his voice raspy. He could not look away from Scarecrow. “Of course.”

Scarecrow’s smile grew.  _ “I have been allowing a strain of fear toxin to leak into this room since I left you this morning. However, due to the slow rate of exposure, it required several hours in order to impact your mind--though even now, you are breathing it in.” _

The man’s eye widened in horror, and Scarecrow laughed his corvid’s-call laugh.

_ “However, the true effect of my toxin only took hold once your waking consciousness had been put to rest.” _ Scarecrow leaned forward, fingers digging into flesh and gaze never wavering from the man’s.  _ “Ah, you are an extraordinary specimen. I always find myself looking forwards to our next...session.” _

_ It is almost a shame that your mind will be broken by the time we are finished. _

The man began laughing; he could not stop. His body shook until seizing, yet he still stared into Scarecrow’s eyes. “W-we are a m-match made in hell, M-Master of Fear.”

A low chuckle.  _ “How pleasing it is to hear that title fall from your lips.” _ Scarecrow grinned, his teeth glinting in the weak light. _ “But I must ask: do you really believe in Hell? A realm where you will burn for all eternity?”  _

Returning Scarecrow’s grin, the man spoke.  _ “Hell is a place on Earth…” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that last line is in reference to the song by Belinda Carlisle. You know the one:
> 
> "Ooh, baby, do you know what that's worth? / Ooh, heaven is a place on earth..."


	5. Crows' Feathers

The man watched, eye half-lidded, as Scarecrow ascended the stairs. A few moments after the door closed, he caught the scent of cigarette smoke--more fear toxin had been released into the room, then. _So be it._

Laying on his back, the man studied the flat, featureless ceiling. _I almost prefer the nightmares over the boredom,_ he thought. _That must say something about me. I shall have to ask Scarecrow what it is._

Scarecrow. Oh, how the man had been trying not to think about him. To be more precise, he had been trying not to think about what Scarecrow was _doing_ to him. _Or so I keep telling myself,_ he thought. While the man had not been allowing himself to reflect on the visions and nightmares caused by Scarecrow’s toxin, he supposed he ought to--after all, he _was_ the one who said he was interested in delving into his own psyche. Therapy, of a sort.

_Though I somehow doubt that this is a typical therapist’s office,_ thought the man as he shifted onto his side. He still felt none of the toxin’s effects, although the reeking stench of cigarettes had been growing steadily stronger. _Perhaps I must put my conscious mind to rest…_

The man glanced at the chain that was fastened to his ankle cuff. _That might do._ He dragged the chain’s coiled length closer to himself, sitting upright in the process. A rush of blood to the head; the man sighed and waited for it to pass. Once it had, he began counting.

_One, two, three, four, five…_

It would take no small amount of time to number all the links that made up his chain; thankfully, that was not the man’s goal. Rather, his intent was to allow his subconscious to rise to the surface--in order to be affected by the fear toxin.

_Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven…_

If counting hundreds of identical metal loops one by one did not bore him, the man would-- _ah. I’ve lost count._ A wave of dizziness struck him then, forcing the man to lay back down.

_You can feel it now, can’t you?_

“Yes,” whispered the man. His sight was going blurry, his chest tightening. He dug his nails into his palms, leaving crimson crescents that healed even as they bled.

_This dosage...it will push you over the edge. Fighting will only make it worse...not that that is a bad thing..._

The man’s laugh turned into a choking cough. He could taste blood in the back of his throat, the flavor heavy and metallic. How much toxin had he inhaled? Was _still_ inhaling? Too much for his system to handle; it was far too much.

The room was filling with acrid grey smoke; twisted figures writhed in the corners of his vision, their faces nothing but smudges of ash. A stench of burning flesh and hair in every breath he took. He screamed, or thought he did. What was reality, and what was fiction?

_There is no difference between the two. Now recount your chains, child._

He counted, losing track each time he blinked. He shook his head and tried again. He wanted to keep his eye open, but the embers floating too near his face made that action impossible. His heart and head throbbed in time, both feeling hot enough to ignite. But he kept counting.

 

_One two, buckle your shoe_

_Three four, knock at the door_

_Five six, pick up sticks_ _  
_

_Seven eight, don’t be late_ _  
_

_Nine ten, let’s say it again..._

 

He did not know who had spoken. Himself, Scarecrow, someone else? Some _thing_ else? He gave a vicious tug on his hair, willing the inane rhyme to cease repeating and let him count in peace.

 

_One two, this day you’ll rue_

_Three four, crows at the door_

_Five six, pack of burning sticks_

_Seven eight, long-buried hate_

_Nine ten, you lose again..._

 

He screamed, trying to drown out the agonizing echo. “Scarecrow, _please, enough!”_ The words had been torn from him; he cried out to the one who was both saint and sadist, hallowed and hollow. And in what felt like an instant...

_“You called for me?”_ Scarecrow was there, kneeling besides him, present and _real._ He felt a cold hand on the nape of his neck, holding him close. _“Oh, look at you. Such beautiful terror.”_

When a needle pricked his skin, he clung all the tighter to Scarecrow’s lab coat, head bowed to his Master of Fear.

  
  


* * *

 

 

He opened his eye to a new scene, one that made him smile.

Scarecrow was seated at the long metal table, papers and glass beakers spread out before him. While the other’s back was towards him, he could see that Scarecrow was fully engrossed in his work. It was not often one saw such passion; it was all the more rare to see it expressed by a man like Scarecrow. The man felt rather special to be privy to his ardor.

It was for this reason that he moved quietly, careful not to let his chain rattle or scrape across the cement floor as he walked. A difficult task, yes, but not an impossible one. The man sat down to the left of the chair, his back to the table.

Scarecrow did not seem to notice him, enrapt as he was with his toxin. He lifted a beaker, studying its liquid contents closely before replacing the flask on the table and opening a leather-bound notebook. The man moved closer; Scarecrow was still oblivious to his presence.

_You could attack him right now...kill him and find a way to escape. But why-ever would you want to? It is not as though you would ever_ truly _be free._

_“Hm?”_ At last, Scarecrow had seen him. His thin lips curled up into a grin as he looked down at the man. _“Well now, how are you feeling? Good?”_

The man nodded, still smiling.

Scarecrow hummed. _“As you should. You have a lovely cocktail of chemicals running through your veins, after all.”_ He laughed and added in a conspiratorial tone, _“No small amount of fear toxin being one of them.”_

Another blithe nod.

_“How unperturbed you are..."_ Scarecrow murmured. _“A fascinating adaptation…”_ It was apparent that Scarecrow’s attention had returned to his notes and formulae.

A calm silence fell over them then, the only sound the rustling of ink-stained pages. The man was glad to have Scarecrow’s company; while Scarecrow could summon monstrous visions, they had also been repelled by his arrival. _I ought to thank him for that,_ thought the man. But he did not want to interrupt Scarecrow, not at a time like this. So, he continued to sit on the floor, looking at nothing in particular. It was...peaceful. Then the unimaginable happened.

Scarecrow reached down and ran his long fingers through the man’s hair. Absently, he twirled a few grey strands together as his pen danced across an already-well-marked sheet of paper.

Moving as slow as he was able so as not to jolt Scarecrow out of his reverie, the man relaxed further. He focused only on the wonderful sensation of human contact. _This is worth all the fear toxin in the world,_ thought the man as Scarecrow’s fingers combed through his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doctor, look into my eyes...  
> Doctor, can you help me? 'Cause I don't feel right  
> Better make it fast before I change my mind
> 
> \- "Cold Cold Cold" by Cage the Elephant


	6. Pumpkin Carving | Jack-O'-Lantern

After that day, Scarecrow began spending more and more time in the man’s quarters. He even grew comfortable enough to leave his documents on the table when he was not there--a sign of trust if ever there was one. Once the man had flipped through them, but Scarecrow’s script was illegible to his eye. A shame, really: he would have liked to know what Scarecrow thought of him, of how the experiment was progressing. It had been several weeks, after all.

Presently, the man was curled up on his bed, waiting for Scarecrow to arrive. He had dragged the mattress over to Scarecrow’s workplace some time ago, making the doctor laugh and say,  _ “Oh, aren’t you just like my crows. I  _ must _ introduce you to them…” _

The distinct sound of a door opening and closing; Scarecrow came into view a moment later. He carried a metal tray piled high with vials and syringes down the stairs and set it on the table, nudging a stack of papers out of the way and into the man’s waiting hands.

_ “Mm, such a helpful assistant you’ve become.” _ Scarecrow’s smile was that of a jack-o’-lantern’s, sharp and haunting. He took the papers back and shuffled through them before placing the stack on his chair.  _ “Speaking of which--” _

The man was already rolling up a sleeve, exposing the pockmarked crook of his elbow. It was time for his injection. As though studying the technique of an artist, the man watched as Scarecrow’s deft hands guided the needle into his vein and depressed the plunger. Slowly, the barrel was emptied of its amber contents as the man gnawed on his lip. The next part tended to be painful.

But when Scarecrow removed the needle, nothing happened. The two men looked at each other, then at the drained syringe. The man blinked in confusion and put a hand over his heart, while Scarecrow’s fingers went to a pulse point on the man’s neck.

He jumped when Scarecrow cackled.  _ “Well child, it seems your work is nearly done. This next iteration of fear toxin shall be my last...and my greatest.” _ Scarecrow’s icy hand moved higher; he cupped the man’s face and met his surprised eye. _ “All thanks to you, my always-willing participant.” _

The man felt his face growing warm under the cool touch and gaze of Scarecrow. He still found himself unaccustomed to...whatever this was. 

_ Though that is not to say you mind it. _

_ “So then,” _ Scarecrow continued,  _ “It is time to close the curtains on this act of our lives. There is no going back--but you suspected that from the start, didn’t you?” _ When the man went to nod, Scarecrow held his head still.  _ “You do not need to answer, child. I know your every thought. I know  _ you.”

_ I know how you burn. _

Scarecrow led the man over to the table and, in one swift motion, swept its surface clear of notes and journals. As hundreds of ink-smudged papers fluttered to the ground, Scarecrow grinned and pushed the man onto the table.

The man made himself comfortable as he watched Scarecrow prepare another syringe, this one full of an ochre substance that seemed to phosphorescence in the shadowy room. Now he could see how excited Scarecrow was; the villain’s skeletal fingers trembled, his expression manic with glee.

_ “It is time, child,” _ Scarecrow said. _ “Give me your arm...and your mind. With my toxin, you shall rise as the Phoenix does, and burn this fearful world to ash.” _

The man held out his hand. Some small, distant part of him cried out in anguish and denial, but he ignored its howls. He smiled as Scarecrow sank the needle into his arm.

  
  


* * *

 

 

The world had gone dark, the embers that glowed in the man’s vision illuminating nothing but oil-black smoke. 

Then came the harsh call of a crow. He followed the sound, sinking deeper into the enveloping smoke. Soon he felt feathers brush against him, heard flapping wings. He pushed further until he was through, then dropped to his knees, surrounded by a maelstrom of sleek feathers and inky eyes that glittered in the embers’ light.

Another figure stepped into the calm center of the storm and stood before the man.  _ Scarecrow. _ The doctor wore a stained lab coat over ragged, stitched burlap, gunny mask in hand. He spoke in the voice of autumn nights.

_ “As docile as you now are, you must also remember what you truly were: that which terrified this city as I terrify Gotham, that monster which wore a mask of copper and obsidian.” _ Those sibilant words slipped under the man’s skin as easily as Scarecrow’s needles did, but he found pleasure in their sting. 

The man could feel madness picking at the threads of his sanity, scratching at the edges and threatening to unspool his mind.

_ That is what we want; give in to it. You know you want to. _

_ “Bend to the will of your Master of Fear; become my aid and my witness, my avatar of insanity. Let me remake you, for only I can carve away your fear, make you  _ more.” Corpse-like fingers ghosted across the man’s jaw.

  
_“Let yourself burn.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I originally planned for this fic to be nine or ten chapters long. As you can see, it's only going to be seven. There's some background behind that.
> 
> When the idea for this thing came to me, it was late August of 2017. I wanted to have the whole fic mostly written by the end of September, and then I would post it in increments throughout October. A nice spooky season to curl up and read a horror story.
> 
> Oh yes, Fear Comes to Jump City was meant to be much more "horror" than...whatever it turned out to be. The reason it isn't, and the reason it's several chapters shorter, is that those chapters would have just been bad horror porn. They were planned out when I was 19 years old and severely depressed, which led to some edgy ideas. There would have been a lot more death, along with a deeper dive into our poor man's psyche.
> 
> But I (thankfully) never wrote those ideas down, and I've (thankfully) forgotten most of them. Now I'm in a better place mentally, so I doubt I could've written this fic how I first wanted to, anyway. If you want to know what Fear Comes to Jump City might have been like, just imagine it as darker and far more unpleasant. 
> 
> I'm not the proudest of this fic, and it hasn't really gotten much attention, but I guess I'm still glad to have written it. Though honestly, I'll be more glad to finish it.
> 
> The next chapter is going to be fairly lengthy, so it will take a while for the next (and final) update. I hope to have it up by Halloween, at least...


End file.
